Pageant of Hearts
by Flagg1991
Summary: After a pageant accident fills Lola with self-doubt, Lincoln helps her train for her return, falling in love with her along the way.
1. The Bigger They Are

Lola Loud pulled on her gloves and set the tiara on top of her blonde head, then checked her appearance in the vanity mirror. "You are _gorgeous,_ " she told the girl staring back at her, and she was: Her skin was smooth and flawless, her eyes were soft and brown, and her gap tooth smile was radiant enough to power a small European nation for weeks, maybe even months.

She blew herself a kiss and turned; Lincoln leaned against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest and a fond grin on his lips. He wore jeans and an orange polo shirt as he did most days - _she_ was the one to decide orange was his color, and it _absolutely_ was. "Do I look pretty, Lincy?" she asked in a teasing singsong voice.

A blush colored his face and he nodded. "You're beautiful," he said. She knew asking his opinion of her appearance made him uncomfortable, and that's why she did it - he was cute when he squirmed, like a little bug.

Not that asking him whether or not she looked nice was beyond his job description - he _was_ her pageant coach, after all, and pageant coaches are supposed to tell you how you look. Granted, she did it a little more often than she had to, but teasing Lincoln was fun, and she _really_ liked to see him blush.

Getting up from the stool, she crossed the dressing room with her head tilted back and her chin out, just as she would when she went onstage. When Lincoln first started coaching her last year, he told her to _always be in character._ It's something actors do, he told her, _but only the good ones._ As she went through her day, walking down the halls of Royal County Elementary, walking home, or simply walking into the kitchen to get a glass of milk, she pretended that every eye was on her, and that a panel of judges was watching her every move, mentally adding or deducting points based on poise, confidence, and grace - or lack thereof. She didn't like to admit it, but she was only human, and even _she_ tripped, stumbled, and spilled things on herself. Regrettable, I know.

His teachings paid off, though: Of the last seven pageants she'd participated in, she won four, three of them in a row. The other girls were too proud to let on, but they were positively _consumed_ with jealousy, especially that two bit tramp Lindsey Sweetwater. Lola didn't hate the others, but she _did_ hate Lindsey: She was a stuck-up little twit from the rich side of town who thought she was _soooo_ much better than her. That she could deal with, but the _real_ reason she despised that thot was because _she was her ony real competition_. Lola was _not_ a lesbian (a word she learned from Lisa), but even she had to admit that with her long red hair, porcelain skin, ruby red lips, and soft green eyes, Lindsey Sweetwater was _pretty_ \- far prettier than a lot of the other girls they competed against.

She was also tact, graceful, and well-spoken. Oh, and talented: Her ribbon dance was legendary on the Lower Michigan circuit, and her dancing was _divine_.

Lola hated her.

So much.

When she reached the door, Lincoln opened it and followed her out into the hall. "Don't worry," he said, "you're gonna do fine. Just remember everything - "

"I'm not worried," Lola replied, but by the tone and timbre of his voice, _he_ was, and that made her chest clutch. Did he not think she was good enough? Did he suddenly lose faith in her?

Of course not, he was just a worrywart, and always had been. Lisa said he would develop an ulcer before he was fifteen, and Lola believed her. Even so, the thought of him no longer believing in her sent ripples of anxiety racing through her stomach. She was not a weak girl, she was strong, but even the strongest need someone to lean on from time to time, someone to light their way, and for her that had always been Lincoln. Of all her siblings, he was the only one always willing to help her, and he always took her bad moods, sharp words, and occasional bad attitudes in stride. She was closer to him than any of her sisters (except for Lana), and though she didn't always say it, or show it, he meant a great deal to her. His _opinion_ meant a great deal to her.

"Good," he said, "don't be. You got this by the hair."

She smiled to herself. "Thank you, Lincy."

They were almost to the stage now: Lola could hear piped music accompanying one of the girls' dance routine. As she always did when she got close to the curtains, Lola felt a rush of anxiety. Her greatest fear was embarrassing herself in front of everyone - tripping and falling flat on her face, maybe, or bending over and ripping the seat of her dress, giving everyone a peek at her underwear. Doing so would confirm what the metaphorical voice of self-doubt whispered in her ear during her darker moments: That she wasn't enough, that every win wasn't her being the best...it was her somehow fooling the judges into _thinking_ she was.

She stopped and turned to her brother; he dropped to one knee and laid a hand on her shoulder. His touch was soft and comforting, his smile warm and encouraging. A strange flutter, like the flapping of butterfly wings, tickled the inside of Lola's stomach, and her heartbeat sped inexplicably up. The air suddenly felt too warm, the floor too wobbly. She searched his eyes, for what she didn't now, and they were the softest shade of brown she had ever seen; her lungs stopped pumping and a strange sensation like electricity flowed through her body, starting at the tips of her toes and crackling along every vein and nerve ending until it reached her heart and shocked it into skipping a beat...or three.

"You're gonna do great," he said and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

She tried to speak, but her vocal cords were locked. "T-Thank you," she finally managed. She felt strange and she didn't know why - maybe she was going to have a heart attack onstage and die, or a blood clot was going to come loose from the wall of a vessel, block traffic, and give her the dubious distinction of being the first six year old to suffer a stroke.

He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and her heart crushed painfully; her skin blazed with fever and a dreamy smile ruffled across her lips like the rise and fall of the tide. He pulled back and squeezed again. "I'll be in the front row cheering you on." He started to stand, but Lola surprised herself by springing at him and throwing her arms around his neck; he wasn't ready, and nearly fell back onto his butt.

"Thank you, Lincy," she said.

"You're welcome," he laughed and hugged her; the warmth of his body against hers, and the feeling of his heart beating next to her heart made her weak in the knees. She drew a deep sigh, his scent filling her nose, then let him go because something told her that if she didn't know, she never would.

He got to his feet and patted the top of her head. "Break a leg."

"I will," she said. _For you,_ she added to herself.

When he was gone, she sighed sadly and turned to the curtain, the most peculiar feeling of loss and loneliness filling her - icy water replacing the hot.

"Awww, how cute," a mocking voice said.

A voice that Lola knew all too well.

Lindsey Sweetwater, clad in a blue dress with ruffles, leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She wore black gloves pulled to her elbows and a dark blue bow in her hair, which spilled over her shoulders like red silk and curled at the bottom.

Disdain washed through Lola like battery acid, and her eyes narrowed to predatory slits. "Cram it, Sweetwater," she said tightly.

Instead, Lindsey pushed away from the wall, folded her hands, and pressed them to one side of her face. "I _wuv_ my big bwuver," she said and batted her eyelashes. "He cuts my food up for me and _everyting_."

Lola's lips pulled back from her teeth in a sneer, lending her the appearance of a small and vicious dog. Lindsey's evil grin only widened when she saw she was getting to her rival. "Den he tucks me in and weads me a bedtime stowry." Here her face darkened and she dropped the baby talk. " _The Little Pageant Whore Who Lost_."

"I'm not the one who's losing, sweetie," Lola said, "you are...like you did the last three times running." She crossed her arms and lifted a challenging brow.

An angry blush colored Lindsey's cheeks and her brow lowered dangerously. "I'd win every pageant too if I _cheated_."

Lola gasped. "I do _not_ cheat."

Lidnsey put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. "Yes you do. Your brother probably sucks the judges off. _Pwease let my sister win."_

Searing rage burst in Lola's chest like a bomb, and her hands closed into fists. "Do _not_ bring Lincoln into this."

One of the many things Lincoln had taught her over the past year was to never show how down, annoyed, frustrated, intimated, or sad you were. _Always keep your chin up and smile, even if it kills you inside._ Showing someone how much they're affecting you is tells them they're on the right track and to keep going. Lola tried _very_ hard to apply that to her interactions with Lindsey, but that girl made her feel things she didn't know were possible: The fall of her hair, the set of her face, and the cutesy sound of her venomous voice were enough to drive a girl to murder even _before_ you factored in what a huge bitch she was. Lola never called her mean names to her face, though, never, because as Lincoln said, she was above that, and if he thought so, _she_ thought so as well. Lindsey knew this, and as soon as the insult passed Lola's lips, she realized her mistake. _Uh-oh._

"I bet he does," Lindsey said. "I mean he _has_ to be gay; what sort of man gets involved in beauty pageants?"

Her cruel, taunting laugher boiled Lola's blood. "My brother is _not_ gay."

"Yeah?" Lindsey asked. "I bet you know from personal experience."

Lola blinked. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Lindsey said, "just that he's not _only_ your brother."

W-Was she saying Lincoln was her boyfriend? Ew, gross!

"You are disgusting," Lola said.

"I'm also going to win tonight," she retorted, "and next month...I'm going to win the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant."

The Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant was the premiere event of the summer pageant season - Lynn once called it _the Super Bowl of dumb girly stuff_ and she wasn't wrong - about the Super Bowl part, that is. Every year girls from across the state flocked to Royal Woods to participate and try for the first place prize: 10,000 dollars and a trophy so tall terrorists wanted to fly airplanes into it. Lola had been training all year for that pagent - not because the wanted the money or the trophy, but because she wanted to prove to everyone, especially herself, that she was the best, that she _was_ talented.

There was no way in _hell_ Lindsey was going to win.

"In your dreams, ho."

Lindsey threw her head back and laughed. "I'm not the one was practically fucking my brother."

"I WASN'T FUCKING MY BROTHER!" Lola roared, her fists balling and her body bending forward at the waist.

The curtains parted and a little black girl in a yellow dress came through. Onstage, the emcee called Lindsey's name, his amplified voice like God's. "There I am," Lindsey said, "watch how it's done, honey."

She went out, and, fuming, Lola stalked over, her heels clicking angrily on the floor; at the curtain she pulled it aside and glared at the little bitch, summoning all her energy and focusing in on making her trip on the hem of her dress. How _dare_ she say those awful things! _I bet he's gay._ No he isn't, Lincoln is perfectly normal and manly - he even had a girlfriend, but she moved away. For which Lola was glad, she might add: When Ronnie Anne lived here, Lincoln rarely _ever_ had time for her, and some days she wouldn't even see him, and for some strange reason that made her so sad she could cry.

Where was she? Oh, right. Lincoln was _all_ man, and no, she didn't know from _personal experience_ , she knew because he was everything a man should be: Kind, courteous, strong, gentlemanly, handsome, thoughtful…

In other words, he was amazing, but the thought of being her brother's girlfriend...of holding his hands and gazing longingly into his eyes, of kissing his soft lips and tasting his tongue, or curling up in his lap like a contented cat and letting him stroke her hair until she purred…

Her heart slammed against her ribs and she felt like she was going to be sick.

Because it was awful and gross.

That's why.

Onstage, Lindsey flicked her wrist and the ribbon fluttered like a flag in the breeze. Lola rolled her eyes - because it wasn't _that_ good; people made _such_ a big deal about it but bleh, I've seen better.

She clutched the curtain in her hand and glared at the floozy as she jumped and twirled, sticking every landing perfectly and whipping the ribbon around with a fluidity that _didn't_ make Lola lime green with envy. She averted her eyes, and, as if drawn by magnetism, they instantly fell on Lincoln: He sat in the front row between Dad and Luan, his arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Her heart started pounding faster and a smile she wasn't conscious of crept across her lips. He must have felt her gaze, because he turned and grinned. Lifting his hand, he gave her a little wave, and she eagerly returned it.

Sigh. Now she felt better. At peace, even. Lindsey finished her dance and the crowd went _wild_ , clapping, whistling, and stomping their feet like a bunch of philistines. Lindsey strutted by with her head back and her eyes pointed down her nose at Lola. "Beat _that_."

"I will," Lola growled.

"Go do it then."

Trembling with rage, Lola stalked out onto the stage and into the hot spotlight. She was so angry that she wasn't paying attention to what she was doing, and stepped on the hem of her dress.

No one in the audience that night had ever seen a more epic face plant, or a bloodier nose.


	2. Misery

Lincoln Loud laid his hand on his crying sister's shoulder and squeezed; his eyes were downcast and his lips were arranged in a sad frown. His face was pale, strained, and his cheeks were streaked with tears of his own; he seemed to be in pain, but he felt much, much, _much_ worse than he looked. It was like jagged fingers were digging in his guts, and with each one of Lola's sobs a pang of agony went through his like broken glass. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again because if he tried to talk, he would break down.

She worked _so_ hard to win this pageant, was so excited...and then this. The blood gushing from her swollen nose was bad, but the look in her eyes, the shame and bitter disappointment, was worse, so, so much worse. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a rush; Lola trembled under his touch, her tiny frame shaking with the force of her weeping, her face hidden by her hands and her nostrils stuffed with tissues. The pageant doctor and Lisa both examined her nose and pronounced it unbroken, thank God, but it was puffy, pink, and tender, and Lincoln already knew what she would say when she finally saw it in the mirror. _I'm hideous._

That made him feel ten times worse, because she was anything but.

Presently, they were in the back seat of the van, the harsh orange light of streetlamps rushing over them as they passed. Everyone else was absolutely silent, their heads bowed in grief much like Lincoln's. When they first got in, each sister gave Lola an encouraging word accompanied by a pat, squeeze, or other display of affection, but the little girl was blind and deaf to it all. Lincoln glanced up, and met Lana's gaze; she sat on Lola's other side, her brow pinched in concern and tears standing in her big brown eyes. _Is she going to be okay?_ The little tomboy seemed to ask.

Lincoln looked away. _I don't know._

Since becoming Lola's pageant coach last year, he'd learned a lot about her, things that he never suspected, such as her sensitivity. On the outside, she was fire and nails, but deep down she was soft and pink, and things that seemed to roll off her back affected her greatly. She appeared serene and self-assured on the surface, but look deeper, and you would find a girl who, despite her beauty, didn not think she was good enough. Why, he couldn't say. He was not a psychiatrist, but he assumed that feelings such as those have a root cause - abuse, neglect, torment at the hands of bullies. Wtth Lola, though, he thought it was simply inborn. She was showered in as much love as two parents and ten siblings could possibly give her, other children had always been kind to her (as kind as children can be anyway), and neither Mom nor Dad had ever even raised their voice at her.

The only thing he could think of was this: Lola required more attention than the average girl. Hey, some people need extra this or extra that, and when they don't get it, they wilt like a flower denied the nourishing light of the sun. When he realized this, he gave her his full focus and affection without a second thought; she needed him, and, in a way, he needed her too. When he started coaching her, Ronnie Anne had just moved away, and though he never let on, he was heartbroken. He liked her _very_ much, and not having her around, to talk to and to look at, sent him spiraling into depression. Coaching Lola, putting all of his thought and energy into that, saved him, and when Lola was the one in need of saving, he was there happily and without complaint.

During the past year, he'd learned a thing or two about himself as well. One was that he found lifting another's spirits, holding their hand and leading them into the light, immensely satisfying. Taking care of Lola, giving her what she so desperately needed, fixing her wounds and mending the lacerations upon her soul, felt _good_. He didn't know why, but it did, and he threw himself into coaching Lola with total abandon, working with her night and day, living it, breathing it, _sleeping_ it. Somehow, he was naturally good at it, and over time he came to spending time with his little sister, to love guiding her to victory just so that she would hug him afterwards and say, "Thank you, Lincy."

He also loved finding out new things about her, even if they were things that hurt him, like her insecurity and her fears, her biggest one being...well, what happened tonight.

Cold white light fell across Lincoln's lap and he looked up as Dad pulled the van into the parking lot of Burpin' Burger. You know someone had a bad day when Mom and Dad made a cheer-me-up stop at a fast food place. He looked at Lola; the tears had tapered off and her hands rested in her lap, her eyes pointed down and her face pallid. Red spotted tissue blossomed from her nose like funeral flowers.

Dad navigated the van into the drive-thru lane and came to a stop behind a black Toyota Camry. "What do you want, kids?" he asked lowly, as though speaking was painful. Everyone muttered half-hearted replies. Burger, fries, the standard, no variation...because no one cared enough. A pall hung over them all; Lola was hurt, inside _and_ out, and food was the last thing on their minds...but it _was_ on their minds.

"Do you want anything?" Lincoln asked.

Lola didn't reply.

He brushed his thumb across her shoulder. "Lola?"

"Leave me alone," she said.

"You have to - "

She turned her head. "Just stop." She held her hand up to the side of her face as if to shield herself from his sight. Lincoln sighed, turned away, and blinked back a sudden rush of tears. He knew Lola - she needed space when she was upset - but every instinct in his body told him to put his arms around her and hold her close, and if she thrashed and tried to break free...hold her tighter...hold her until she was all better and smiling again.

The Camry pulled away from the speaker and the van took its place. Dad ordered twelve meals and sighed wearily when the man on the other end recited the price. Lincoln stole a glance at Lola: Lana whispered something to her, and she held up her other hand to shield her out too. Lana winced and looked up at Lincoln with sad eyes. _Give her space,_ he mouthed. Lana nodded heavily and stared at her lap.

Dad drove to the first window, reluctantly handed over six ten dollar bills, then proceeded to the second. Lynn, sitting in the next to last row, looked over her shoulder at Lola, and next to her, Luna did the same; they wore matching expressions of worry, and as one, looked at Lincoln - her coach, her handler. _She'll be fine,_ he mouthed, and his lips twisted at the bitter taste of untruth.

When Dad got the food, he handed it back to Lori, who distributed it, each row handing some back like school kids passing their tests forward. Luna turned and held out a bag, her eyes not meeting Lincoln's; he took it, rummaged around, and brought out a burger and an order of fries, then gave them to Lana. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" he asked Lola.

"Yes!" she snapped.

Lincoln recoiled as if slapped, and for some reason he couldn't name, her sharp tone almost sent him crying. Instead, he sat the bag in his lap and tried to ignore the pain in his chest and the warm, greasy smell of overprocessed meat and lard covered potatoes.

No one ate on the way home, and as soon as they parked in the driveway, Lola was up like a shot, squeezing roughly past Lana and throwing the door open. She jumped down, disappeared around the front of the van, and stormed across the yard. Everyone tracked her with their eyes except for Lincoln; he watched the backs of his hands tremble and shake.

"Oh, she's _really_ upset," Mom said dolefully.

"I know," Dad sighed.

"I never seen her so broken up," Luna said.

"Yeah," Lori agreed worriedly. "She's _literally_ devastated."

Lincoln sighed.

Dad grabbed the keys from the ignition and got out, everyone following with all the glum enthusiasm of a funeral procession. Lincoln was last, and by the time he reached the front door, Lola was gone, presumably up to her room. "Should we go talk to her?" Mom asked.

"No," Lincoln said instantly, "give her space."

Mom and Dad both looked at him, then away; with as much time as he'd spent with her over the past year, he was the expert, and everyone recognized it.

Still holding the bag containing his and Lola's food, he went upstairs and into his room, where he snapped on the light. He dropped the bag onto the nightstand and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his hands clasping his knees. He stared down at his feet and fought against the restless energy already beginning to fill him.

He wanted to go to her...to comfort her and dry her tears...but he knew it best, she needed space. Tomorrow she might be ready to accept his love and consolation, but not tonight.

Unfortunately.

He drew a deep breath and looked up: Bun-Bun stared back at him from the dresser, his head tilted quizzically to one side. _What happened out there, Linc?_

Shit.

Shit happened.

In her room, Lola lay prostrate on her bed, her face buried in her pillow and her chin tucked against her neck so that her weight rested on her forehead and not her aching nose. Her hands, bare now, covered the back of her head and her chest rose and fell as she fought to keep herself from breaking down again: Crying made her nose hurt even worse, but when you're sad, sometimes you can't help it, and right now she was _very_ sad.

She thought back to the disaster and squeezed her eyes shut against welling tears; Lindsey Sweetwater's evil laughter rang still in her ears, and the blurry vision of her rival, seen through a sheen of tears, bent forward, hands on her hips and cackling like the witch she was, danced mockingly through her mind. Worse than that were the shocked gasps and sympathetic hisses from the audience. _Oooh, that had to hurt._ They didn't laugh, but their pity - and the knowledge that she looked stupid and clumsy in front of them all - turned her stomach: Now and forevermore, she would be known as the klutz who tripped and smashed her nose against the floor, and if she showed her face again, they would all remember her as she was that horrible night - on her knees sobbing, blood mixing with tears and mascara - small, pathetic, a failure.

The thought of going on that stage again, of daring to present herself as though nothing had happened _even though everyone knew_ sent a shiver racing down her spine, and a sob escaped her throat. She flopped in the most spectacular way imaginable, and there was no coming back.

Her career was over.

The tears came then, hot and stinging; she pressed her quivering lips closed and tried to hold them back, but the damn burst and she wept, her nose throbbing with every rapid pump of her heart.

And the absolutely worst part of the whole thing?

She let Lincoln down. He worked so hard to help her, to shape and guide her, and she threw it all away by being a clumsy doofus who fell down just walking. Just walking. The whole ride home she couldn't even bring herself to look at him, because if she saw the disappointment that she knew must be in his eyes, and the pity, it would kill her. Looking stupid in front of everyone - in front of Lindsey Sweetwater - was bad, catastrophic, but looking stupid in front of Lincoln was world-ending. She cried even harder and hugged herself tight. _It happens,_ he told her in the car, _don't beat yourself up._

The floor did that for you.

God, how could she botch something so _simple_ as walking onto the stage, something she had done a million times before? How could she let this happen? Why?

Because she wasn't good enough, that's why. Her entire short life, she had been just a pretty face - everyone fawned over how _cute_ she was, how _beautiful_. Neighbors, teachers, family friends, her own parents. When she was smaller, she accepted this praise readily and with delight. Then, one day, she realized something: Beauty is not an accomplishment, it's luck, beyond one's control just like being ugly. All of her older siblings had talents - Leni with her designs, Luna with her music, Luan and comedy, Lynn and sports. These were things that weren't given to them by genetics, they were things that they went out and achieved on their own through determination and perseverance. They _earned_ their praise, she did _not_ earn hers.

When her mother suggested beauty pageants, she jumped at the idea with a squeal of excitement, not because she wanted everyone to look at her and see that she was pretty, but because she wanted them to look and see that she was _more_. She wanted to excel at every aspect - dancing, speaking - so that everyone could see that there was more to her than met the eye, that she was just as good as her sisters, that she, too, could actually accomplish something and not skate by on her looks.

Apparently she was wrong. Lindsey Sweetwater was a better dancer, Susie Parker was a better speaker, and Marissa Sines always did something interesting and unique for the talent portion while she, inept and vapid Lola Loud, did tired and obvious routines that required all the skill of a lamp standing in a corner.

She was an idiot to think she had even a modicum of aptitude - she was stupid to reach above her station and not play to her strengths. She should have contented herself with being attractive and accepted her eventual fate as a rich old man's trophy wife, but no, she had to want more, she had to force a square peg into a round hole and demand talent from herself when she had none to give.

She took a deep, watery breath and turned her head: Across the room, Lana sat on her bed looking sad. Their eyes met, and the tomboy perked up a little. "You okay?" she asked.

"No," Lola said and faced the wall, hiding her shame and her hideous, untalented face. "And I never will be," she added in a whisper.


	3. Sparks

Lincoln drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and stared into his cereal as though it were a crystal ball: He saw only milk and overprocessed bits of sugary O's and not the future.

It was the next morning and everybody was gathered for breakfast - everybody except for Lola, that is. Lana said she was awake but didn't want to 'face' everyone. Lincoln expected as much, but hoped that she would be better today than she was the night before; he wanted, nay _needed_ to see and comfort her, and every moment that he didn't, every second that she was alone and self-loathing was an eternity of excruciation. He felt the urge, as he had a thousand times over the past twelve hours, to go into her room and comfort her whether she wanted it or not, but stopped himself because he was being selfish - thinking of what _he_ wanted and not what Lola wanted. Even so, resisting that temptation was the hardest thing he had ever done, and even now it took everything he had to keep himself from going to her.

Noon, he decided, he would give her until noon then he would try. Knowing her and how traumatizing what happened was for her, she wouldn't come out on her own, he would have to go after her.

When he looked up from his bowl, he realized that all of his sisters were watching him with something like expectation. They all glanced away as if they had been caught doing something wrong, but none of them spoke.

"I'll talk to her in a little while," he said.

"I don't know if it'll do any good," Lana said.

"He has to do something," Lynn declared. "We can't just let her stay up there forever."

Leni touched her finger to her chin and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling in thought, then brightened when an idea came to her. "I know. We should, like, make her a card...with little doggies on it."

"Given her mental and emotional distress, I doubt a card would suffice," Lisa said, then softened her tone. "But it would be a nice gesture."

"I should write her a song," Luna said.

"I should write her a poem," Lucy added. "About darkness."

Lincoln sighed. "Everyone just leave her alone. I'll talk to her later. For now just...go about your business." The last part came out sharper than he meant, and a few of his sisters (Lynn, Lori, and Luna) shot him dirty looks, but no one was in the mood to argue, and maybe, just maybe, they knew he was right: The best thing to do at the moment was to leave her be, and when the time came to step in, it should be him and not them.

He checked the time on his phone: 9:45. Two hours and fifteen minutes. That's all; not very long at all.

Only it was.

Maybe he should do it now; waiting until some arbitrarily set deadline didn't make much sense when you got right down to it. She was hurting now and she would be hurting then; she was ashamed and hating herself at this very moment, and here he was doing nothing about it, letting her stew in her own misery while telling himself that waiting was best. _This isn't about me,_ he told himself but maybe it was...maybe he wanted to put it off as long as possible because looking into her sad eyes and seeing her wounded nose, her anguish and dejection, would kill him just like it did last night.

He loved his little sister dearly, and her pain cut him like the serrated edge of a knife; it kept him awake into the early hours of the morning and even now made him sick, literally sick. He didn't want to look upon it again, he really, really didn't.

Sighing, he pushed away from the table and got up, his sisters tracking him with their eyes. He took his bowl into the kitchen and dumped it into the trash, his movements slow, mechanical and his mind already with Lola. He dropped the bowl and his spoon into the sink and went through the dining room, ignoring his sisters when they all turned their heads to watch him go. At the bottom of the stairs, he laid his hand on the bannister and paused. Was he doing the right thing?

Yes, he decided, and ascended, his stomach a seething nest of nerves. The hall stood still and silent, sunlight spilling in through open bedroom doors and lying across the floor in wide shafts; dust motes danced in the beams like pegan revelers, and when he passed they stirred and whorled. At Lola's door, shut firmly and cold, uninviting, Lincoln took a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever may come, a part of him, a very weak part, hoping she would lash out and send him away rather than show him her pain.

Grimacing, he drew back his hand and knocked, the sound flat and hollow in the suddenly vacuum quiet, like the impossible and bonechilling rapt on a coffin lid...from the inside.

Lola didn't answer.

He knocked again.

"Go away." Her voice was listless and muffled, and pierced Lincoln's heart like a spear.

"I-It's me," he said.

Silence.

"Go away." There was a hesitant hitch that told him she didn't _really_ want him to go, that, even if she wasn't fully aware of it, she wanted him to comfort her just as badly as _he_ wanted him to.

But he didn't know for sure, and for a moment he wasn't sure if he should press forward or leave her alone: She might not be ready, and he _really_ didn't want to force the matter if she wasn't.

Finally, he tried the knob.

It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open and poked his head in: The curtains were drawn heavily against the sun, casting the room in shadow, a single thin shaft falling through the gap. Lola was nestled under her pink comforter and facing the wall, her back to the world. One of the hinges squeaked, but she made no reaction, uttered no commandment to leave, which encouraged him slip in, clicking the door softly shut behind him. The blankets rustled as she shifted, perhaps to get closer to him...or maybe to get farther away.

Lincoln crossed the room and sat, the mattress dipping under him: It was a pillowtop, comfy to sleep on, not so comfy to sit on. He twisted around and looked at Lola, his brow knitted in soft concern: Her back gently rose and fell with the tide of her breathing, but otherwise she was stock still, the back of her blonde head somehow sad despite its lack of features. He reached out a tentative hand, waffled, then laid it on her shoulder, his thumb grazing the silken flesh of her throat and his heart skipping a beat he couldn't explain. For a moment he searched for the right words, but at a time like this, he figured there _were_ no right words. She was hurt, ashamed, and no doubt hating herself as a klutz, a fool, and not good enough.

"I know you're upset," he said, "but..it's not the end of the world." That sounded contrived and even a little dismissive, but it was kind of true. "Falls happen," he continued. "How many girls have you seen trip since you started? I can count...five just in the past year alone."

Two pageants ago, in fact, a little Hispanic girl fell completely off the stage and twisted her ankle, and last year, another did a somersault and crashed onto the judges' table. Lola's accident was embarrassing, and Lincoln understood her pain, but it was not the worst he had ever seen, and he doubted it was the worst anyone in the audience had ever seen.

He said as much, and Lola drew a deep breath but did not reply.

"You can -"

"Just drop it, Lincoln," she croaked. "I'm a failure."

Lincoln's stomach turned. "Lola, you're _not_ a failure. You're...you're human and you made a mistake. It happens. I make mistakes all the time. Luna makes mistakes, Lynn makes mistakes. Y-You can't go through life without flubbing something somewhere. It's impossible. No one is perfect."

"Lindsey Sweetwater is," Lola sulked.

"No, Lindsey Sweetwater is _not_ perfect. Remember when she stumbled?"

Three pageants ago (or was it four?). Lindsey staggered a little as she came onstage. She caught herself without missing a beat, and the majority of the audience missed it, but as a coach who paid attention to poise and form whether he meant to or not, he didn't. Lola noticed too, and commented on it afterwards. _Did you see her? She nearly made a fool out of herself_.

The way she did last night.

Sigh.

Lola didn't reply. "When that happens...when you stumble in life...you have to get back up and keep going."

For a long time Lola was silent, considering his words, he hoped. A lot of people might look at her and think she was just a pretty face, but she was smart, and she _had_ to realize the truth in what he said. Everyone under the sun makes the occasional misstep, even if you don't see it, and even if you don't think it happens, it does. That doesn't make it any less embarrassing or hurtful when it happens, but knowing that you're not alone, that shit just _happens,_ softens the blow...at least it did for him.

"I guess," she said. "But I-I can't show my face. Not so soon. I'm…I'm withdrawing from the Little Miss High and Mighty pageant."

Lincoln's jaw dropped. Lola had been working toward and talking about that pageant since last year. It was...it was the highlight of the season, of her _life_. Her backing out was like The Undertaker backing out of the main event at Wrestlemania. She'd put so much time and effort into it that...her dropping it was unthinkable. "Lola," he cautioned, "that's the biggest pageant of the season, you've been training for months…"

"I know," she moaned, "but I can't do it. Not this time."

Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, to urge her to reconsider, but snapped it closed again. She sounded serious, and if her mind was made up, he wouldn't push her. "Are you absolutely sure?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He nodded. "Alright. If that's what you want." He squeezed her shoulder and felt the sudden urge to run his fingers through her hair and to place a delicate kiss on her cheek; he frowned to himself and fought it back. "Are you okay? Everyone's really worried about you."

"I'm fine," she sighed. "I just need to be alone."

Why did her asking to be alone feel like being stabbed in the guts? "Okay," he said and started to get up, but stopped when Lola's hand felt on the back of his. He looked at her, and she offered him a weak smile that was brilliant and beatific nonetheless; the air left his lungs in a rush and his heart blasted against his chest like a drum.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he said, his throat tight. Before he knew what he was doing, he threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. Her breathing quickened and a pink blush spread across her cheeks, making her even more beautiful than she already was.

"You're a good brother," she said haltingly, "and a good coach."

He smiled at her praise like a satisfied cat, and her mouth puckered in a grin that she tried to suppress but couldn't. Acting on instinct he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it, his heartbeat doubling when they touched her warm, fragrant skin. Lola's eyes widened and her blush deepened. Something about this didn't feel right...felt different than it did any other time he'd kissed her...but he didn't want to stop; he wanted to trail kisses up her bare arm like Pepe Le Pew until he reached her soft throat and -

With a jerk, he let go and shot to his feet. Lola shook her head like a woman coming out of a daze and swallowed thickly. "I-I gotta go," Lincoln said, and hurried out before she could reply.

In his room, he shut the door and sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing and his heart throbbing so painfully he winced. He raked a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. What the hell was _that?_ He'd kissed Lola a thousand times in his life, but never like he just had...never letting his lips linger or feeling like...like…

Like he did the time he kissed Ronnie Anne.

He licked his lips, and imagined he could still taste her skin; reflexively he spat onto the carpet. What's wrong with you? You don't kiss your sister like that...and you don't like it so much you want to do it _more_. What, are you some kind of pervert?

No! God, he could _never_...it was just...an emotional moment, that's all. He was worried about her and she was so upset that he got away from himself. He didn't mean anything by it; you kiss someone you love, especially when they're hurting. He didn't do anything out of the way, did he? He kissed the back of her hand, so what? He was making this needlessly weird.

Only...he didn't think he was, and he didn't think this was the first time he'd ever looked at Lola and noticed her heart-stopping beauty, or felt her vulnerability and wanted to kiss it away, even if he had to brush his lips against every square inch of her smooth, creamy skin.

AHHHHHHHH!

He leapt to his feet and pressed his hands to the side of his head like a madman in the middle of a padded room. Okay, _that_ was perverted. Jesus, you're sick!

When someone knocked on the door, he jumped and uttered a sharp cry. The knob turned, and for a moment he was certain that it would be Chris Hansen from _Dateline: NBC_ (" _Why don't you have a seat, Linc?"_ ), but it was only his sisters, clustered together and wearing expressions ranging from worry to hopefulness. "How is she?" Lori asked from the head of the pack.

Huh?

Oh.

Right.

He sank onto the edge of the bed. "She's upset," he said simply.

Everyone came over and sat, some next to him and some of the floor. Luna, her back against the bed, drew her knees up and rested her arms on them. "Yeah, man, but is she gonna come out of her room?"

"She wants to be alone," Lincoln said, "she -" here his voice hitched at the memory of her words "-she thinks she's a failure. And she doesn't want to compete in the Little Miss High and Mighty anymore."

The air went out of the room. "What?" Lynn asked from beside him. "She's been amped for that pagent all year."

"She's really not going to do it?" Luan asked, an edge of shock in her voice.

Lincoln shook his head. "No, she's not."

"She can't just give up like that," Lynn said. "She has to dust herself off -"

"That's what I said," Lincoln put in, "but her mind's made up." There was a hopeless quality to his voice that went well with the hopeless feeling in his stomach. He thought of her lying in bed, depressed...then she smiled at him, her hair pooled around her head like a halo. His heart crushed and he looked away from his sisters with a hot blush of shame.

"Is there anything we can do?" Lori asked.

Lincoln thought for a moment and slowly shook his head. "Not right this moment but…" he trailed off as he turned his idea over in his mind.

"What?" Lori asked quickly. "Spit it out, twerp."

Lincoln sighed. "Maybe we can make her _want_ to compete." He stopped and considered. He didn't want to force her into anything, but every fiber of his being told him that getting her fired up, rekindling her passion until it eclipsed her self-doubt, was best. Certainly better than leaving her alone and letting her dwell. She needed time, she said, to get over it...she couldn't show her face _so soon_. Lincoln could understand that, but what would she do? Stew, that's what. She was in a defeatist mindset, and once someone's in one of those, it's all too easy to sink all the way to the bottom. Her _break_ might turn into her retiring, too afraid of failing to get back in the game, and from there, her doubts would only multiply until she was scared to do _anything_.

He didn't want that.

"How do we do _that?"_ Lori asked.

"I'm not sure," Lincoln said. "She feels…" he paused, unsure if he should tell his sisters _how_ Lola felt. It seemed like a betrayal. They needed to know, though. "She feels like everyone else is talented and she's just a pretty face, like she's not as good as anyone else and it really depresses her. That's why she got into pageants in the first place, to prove to herself that she could actually accomplish something."

No one spoke for a moment as they digested that new bit of information. "So she's really down on herself," Lincoln added to drive the point home. His sisters looked at each other with dark, downcast expressions.

"She really feels like that?" Leni asked.

Lincoln nodded. "We can't make her jealous of us because it won't work, it'll just make her feel worse."

"Then what do we do?" Luna asked.

"I'm not sure. I need time to think."

Everyone looked at each other, and by unspoken consent they got up and filed out, giving him the space he needed. When they were gone, he bowed his head: A vision of Lola lying back on her bed in a spill of sunlight, her hair like fire and her eyes sparkling; something stirred in his stomach, something he should not be feeling, and he sighed.

He just wanted her to be happy. That's all. And being locked away in her room and going over what happened again and again would only make her sadder, skipping the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant would only make it worse. He had to do _something_ , but what? His thing was planning and problem solving - attributes he took great pride in, skills that he put to great use in helping his sisters when they needed it most - if he couldn't apply everything he had to help Lola - to the sister he loved most - then…

His laptop chimed from its spot on his dresser, startling him. Someone was calling.

Good.

He needed the distraction.

Getting up, he crossed the room, grabbed it, and carried it back to his bed where he sat. He opened it, and Ronnie Anne's freckled face filled the screen, surprising him: Since moving away, she didn't have very much time for video calls. Once upon a time, it bothered him, because he really liked her, but he lost himself in training Lola and those feelings kind of...went away.

He transferred his focus to Lola instead.

His time and energy, he meant. Not his feelings.

"Hey, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said. She was sitting on her bed, a white wall behind her, the bottom half of a poster just visible above her head.

"Hey," he said and leaned back against his pillow. "It's been a while."

Almost a month, to be exact.

"Yeah, I know," she said and flicked her eyes guiltily away, "I've just had a lot of stuff going on."

He figured. Two months ago, Lori started acting really weird around him. When she'd get off the phone with Bobby and he'd ask how Ronnie Anne was, she'd give him a big, sheepish smile and start rambling about how she was 'great' and 'fine, just literally fine.' He was born at night, but not _last_ night, as they say, so he knew she was hiding something. When he eventually confronted her, she broke down and told him that Ronnie Anne _literally has a boyfriend_ _out there_. She was afraid to tell him because she thought it would hurt him, but, strangely, it didn't.

"How's Lola?" she asked.

"Well, she's - wait a minute, what do you mean?"

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "Well, after what happened…"

For a moment Lincoln was so confused he couldn't speak. "How do you know what happened?"

Ronnie Anne held up her phone. On the screen was a still image of Lola lying on face down on the stage. There was a white sideways PLAY arrow in a red square which told him it was a video. "She's on the front page of Faildotcom."

The caption beneath read AND THE AWARD FOR BEST TRIP AND FALL GOES TO….

Below _that_ was: _Submitted by Lindsey S._

Horror flooded Lincoln's chest.

Oh, God, I hope Lola -

A high, blood curdling scream shattered the silence.

\- doesn't find out.

* * *

Lola lie on her bed, her jaw slack and her chest rising and falling in a quick but shallow rhythm: Her heart gently pounded, and the back of her hand, where Lincoln kissed her, tingled pleasantly. Her face was on fire, and her skin was warm all over; sharp pangs raced through her stomach and her head spun, the room twisting back and forth so violently that she clutched the cover lest she fly off and break her neck. She licked her dry lips and glanced at the door - when did he leave? Two minutes ago? Two hours? She didn't know, thinking was hard: Visions of her brother looking down upon her with tender eyes and bringing her hand to his mouth danced before her eyes, and the feeling of his kiss - like sparks shooting through her blood - lingered, the ghostly memory igniting every nerve ending in her little body like a raging inferno. She had never felt anything like this before - at least this strongly - and her frame trembled slightly.

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. A weight seemed to press down on her chest, and the strange fluttering in her depths - the nauseous, achy, throbbing tickle - increased with every thought, every abstract fantasy that he didn't stop at her hand, that he went higher, and higher, and higher still until their noses touched, their eyes gazed deeply into one another, and they shared the same ragged breath. She shook her head as if in denial of how beautiful it was, and every soft, encouraging word Lincoln had ever spoken to her, every fleeting touch, every hug and peck of the cheek, came back to her in a crashing tidal wave. She swallowed thickly and looked around as if for salvation, but found none: She was alone with her feelings, feelings she couldn't name, but thought she recognized anyway.

Feeling that she should not be having.

She sat up and scooted back until she was pressed against the headboard, then drew her knees to her chest. Revelation crept along the corners of her mind like questing fingers, and she batted them away. Think of the pageant instead...the grief, the humiliation, the way Lindsey Sweetwater laughed and laughed. That's safe, that's _normal_.

Unlike…

Her phone chirruped, and she shot out her arm so suddenly that she almost knocked it off the nightstand; it trembled in her hand and she nearly dropped it. She swiped her thumb across the screen and saw that she had a Google Alert - it was set so that every time her name was mentioned online, she was notified. Sudden dread filled her stomach like cold sludge, and her heart began to race - she knew even before she opened it that it was going to be something bad, and a voice in her head told her to drop it and walk away, but her morbid curiosity got the better of her...she had to know.

What she saw was more terrible than she ever could have imagined: Herself tripping and whacking her face on the floor; the crowd gasping in pained sympathy; Lindsey Sweetwater laughing maniacally offscreen. For a moment she was back there like a war vet in the middle of a flashback, and the deepest, darkest despair she felt as she was ushered into the wings blotted out her world entire, casting her in cold darkness. A steel band constricted around her lungs and her stomach rolled. Her eyes flicked down and she saw two things. First:

 _Submitted by Lindsey S._

The second:

 _2 Million Views._

A scream of horror tore from her throat and the phone dropped from her hand, bouncing on the bed and landing face down. In a flash, someone was knocking on the door. "Lola?" Lincoln asked worriedly.

The video was still playing, and the cruel sound of Lindsey Sweetwater's laughter rang through her head like a harbinger of doom. Two million views...two million people seeing her fail, laughing at her, knowing that she was not good enough. Her heart shriveled and tears welled in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and gave into them, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. She didn't know Lincoln was there until he took her into his arms and pulled her close to his chest; she was powerless to fight, not that she wanted to. He hugged her tightly, and his warm, comforting scent filled her nose, immediately soothing her like a child's blanket. She laid her head against him and wept bitterly, her hand clutching the front of his shirt in a needy, desperate gesture. He stroked his fingers through her hair and quietly shushed her, his lips ghosts across her forehead like the faint touch of the softest satin.

In his warm embrace, her tears tapered off and the shaking stilled, but the dark emotions swirling in her chest only grew. Lindsey Sweetwater's laughter filtered through the phone speaker, high, braying, full of dark delight and sadistic glee.

Something happened then: Her angusih sucked into a tight ball in the middle of her breast and turned hot, red hot, as hot as the fiery surface of the midday sun. Her lips peeled back from her teeth and her brow angled down in an angry V; her body began to shake again, not with sadness now but with rage.

And still Lindsey Sweetwater laughed. " _Have a nice trip, see you next fall!"_

Like a shot, Lola threw herself off of Lincoln's lap and snatched the phone; before she knew what she was doing, she was flinging it across the room: It hit the wall and exploded in a shower of plastic and glass, falling to the carpet in pieces. Blood crashed against her temples and her body was hotter than it had ever been before, even when Lincoln stared into her eyes and kissed her hand. Fury bubbled up inside of her like hot tar, shooting up in a jet and leaving her mouth in a shriek. " _That bitch!"_

Lincoln winced, and jumped to his feet when Lola leapt off the bed and shoved her trophy case: It wobbled, then toppled over, landing on the floor with a heart-stopping crash; plaques, awards, and framed photos spilled from the shelves and fell like boulders from the sky. "Lola!"

The little girl whipped around and Lincoln shrank back: Her face was the color of blood and her eyes blazed with hatred; her shoulders lifted and fell with every deep, animal pant, and her balled fists shook at her sides. He'd never seen her this mad, and to be honest, it scared him.

"I'm gonna kill her!" she roared. "I'll claw her eyes out and wrap that stupid bow around her throat! I'll-I'll-I'll -" she threw back her head and let out an inarticulate cry of savagery. Lincoln caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and looked up to find his sisters crowded around the door, their expressions ranging from worry to shock.

Lola lashed out and kicked one of the trophies...then stopped, a wicked smile spreading across her face. Lincoln gulped. "No I'm not," she said, her voice cold and even...deliberate and deadly. She looked up at him, and her grin crazily reminded him of a shark moments from striking. "I'm going to hit her where it hurts." She giggled demonically, and Lincoln's blood froze.

"I'm going to win the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant."


	4. Those Four Words

**Lyrics to** _ **Drop Dead Gorgeous**_ **by Aerosmith (2001)**

 _Lincoln sighed and stepped onto the back porch, a warm spring breeze rushing over him and the gentle rays of the sun caressing his skin; flower scent seasoned the air, underlaid by the smell of fresh cut grass; the whine of a mower found his ears, and from somewhere over the back fence, children laughed in the midst of their play._

 _It was a beautiful scene._

 _And Lincoln was numb to it._

 _He crossed to the top step and sat, his hands pressing to the sides of his head and his eyes squeezing closed against a shameful rush of tears. Boys aren't supposed to cry, he knew that, but he hurt so badly it felt like a knife was twisting in his heart, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ronnie Anne's face on the backs of his lids, which sharpened his grief._

 _Less than an hour ago, he stood on the sidewalk and watched as Ronnie Anne was carried away from him in the back of a car; she stared sadly out the window, her palm pressed against the glass and her wet eyes a dark, tempest-tossed sea of pain. Next to him, Lori openly wept as she waved stiffly to Bobby; Lincoln's lips quivered but he wouldn't allow himself to cry, not in front of Ronnie Anne...not until he was alone and no one could see, or hear._

 _He loved her._

 _He loved her with everything in his heart and soul; her smile was the light of his life, and her eyes were his starry skies. The sound of her voice was like music, and her laughter made him feel things that he couldn't explain, longing, maybe, or elation. He didn't know; he knew only that Ronnie Anne Santiago was what he wanted most in life...and now she was gone, and with her his heart._

 _Presently, he fought back tears and hugged his knees to his chest. In the yard, Lola pranced back and forth on a stage that had LANA written all over it - literally, Lana signed the things she built, and her name covered the side of the runway in big, blocky letters. His vision blurred and he blinked; the world came into focus again just as Lola turned and waved at an imaginary crowd, her hand stiff and her smile haughty, a princess suffering the presence of the masses and straining to look happy about it. She saw him, and her smile went from forced to genuine. "Hi, Lincy!"_

 _Lincoln lifted a hand and let it drop limply back to his lap; it weighed a thousand pounds and moving it made him tired._

" _Did you come to watch me win?" she asked, drawing the last word cutely out._

" _Yeah," Lincoln said. Speaking was just as hard as moving._

 _Lola reached the end of the walkway, turned, and started back toward the stage, looking this way and that and waving. He noticed something then: Her posture was off, and she slouched forward ever so slightly. "Stand up straighter," he said._

" _What?" she asked, apparently not having heard him._

" _Stand up straighter," he repeated, "you're slouching."_

 _She threw her shoulders back without complaint. "Better?" she asked._

 _He studied her for a moment. "You could put a little more...into your smile."_

 _At the end of the runway, she stopped and turned her head, her brows lifting and one hand going to her hip. "What's wrong with my smile?" She stared at him intently, waiting for a response._

" _Well," he said haltingly, "it's looks kind of...fake."_

 _She rolled her eyes. "That's because it_ is _fake. My feet hurt, my back hurts, and I'm parading myself around as though I'm a side of beef. I'm_ not _in a smiling mood."_

 _That side of beef comment confused him. Isn't parading around the whole point of a beauty pageant? Sure, there were other aspects, such as the talent portion and the speaking part, where the contestants are asked a question_ (how would you change the world?) _, but the centrepiece, the turkey to everything else's trimmings, was displaying one's beauty. Unless he was sorely mistaken. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" he asked._

 _Lola pursed her lips. "Yes," she said, "for the most part."_

 _The most important part, but okay. "Still...you look like you're not happy and it shows. That'll make you look bad."_

 _Lola sighed and put on her biggest, brightest, and toothiest smile. "How's this?" she asked through her teeth. She looked like she just stepped on a nail and was trying to keep from howling in pain._

" _Ehhh...better."_

" _You don't sound convinced," she said, her teeth still bared._

 _Because he wasn't. "Just...think of the happiest thing you can."_

 _Lola sighed but flicked her eyes to the side in thought. After a moment, she smiled again, softer this time, and warmer too, like the sun breaking through a bank of gray clouds. "There you go," Lincoln said. "_ Much _better. What are you thinking of?"_

" _Lindsey Sweetwater in tears," Lola piped._

 _Oh. Whatever works, I guess. "Well...you look happier, and that's going to endear you to the judges and to the audience. People automatically like someone they see as happy and nice. If_ you're _happy and nice, the judges will like you, and if they like you, they will be inclined to go easier on you if you mess up."_

 _She considered for a moment, then hummed. "I guess." Her face brightened, and she donned a smile that he knew all too well._ I just had a brilliant idea, _it said. "How about you be my coach? You're good at planning and stuff, you'd be perfect."_

 _Lincoln faltered. Coach? He didn't know the first thing about beauty pageants. Well...maybe the_ first _thing, but that was it. "I-I don't think I'd make a good coach. I don't know anything about beauty pageants. I'd bomb."_

" _No, you wouldn't," Lola said._

 _He opened his mouth to protest further, but reconsidered. He_ did _need something to occupy his time, because if he had nothing, he'd dwell on Ronnie Anne, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name. He didn't want to do that, to think about her until his stomach was in knots, to miss her so badly he ached, to pull his covers over his head and go methodically through every happy moment they shared, torturing himself with what once was and what could have been._

" _I-I could try, I guess," he said noncommittally._

One year and three months later, Lincoln stood on that very same stage with Lola by his side. It was a sweltering late July afternoon and the air was so humid you'd drown if you took a deep breath...provided the pounding sun didn't get you first. Lincoln uncrossed his arms and dragged the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. "You sure you're ready for this?"

It had been less than forty-eight hours since her accident, and though she was full of spite and vinegar, the moment they came into the yard and she saw the stage, Lola's eyes widened in apprehension and a shiver of dread went through her like icy water. She took a step back and nearly tripped over her own feet, but Lincoln shot out an arm and caught her. He expected her to be intimidated at first, but she was determined, and that morning over breakfast she scoffed at the idea of waiting a few more days. _I need to start training_ now. _I want to blow Lindsey out of the water and make her look like the hack she is._

"Yes," she said now. Her voice was steady and resolute. Her body was stiff, though, as if frozen, and she did not move. Lincoln laid his hand on her shoulder, and the memory of yesterday in her room, kissing her hand and almost kissing her elsewhere, came flooding back; he pulled shamefully away.

"It's alright," he said awkwardly. "It's just you and me here."

She didn't immediately reply, instead taking a deep, calming breath. "I know." With that, she started down the runway with mincing baby steps, her shoulders square and her head held high and proud. She was halfway when the memory of of what happened the other night hit her like an open palm, and for a moment she was there again, tripping, heart leaping into her throat, arms flailing, the floor coming closer, closer, red pain exploding inside her skull as her face connected and her nose crunched. She froze and began to shake. Behind her, Lincoln frowned.

Lindsey Sweetwater's hateful laughter echoed in her head, and humiliation burned across her face and the back of her neck.

"You can do this, Lola," Lincoln said, "you've done it a million times."

The runway seemed to stretch into forever, a hundred feet, a thousand, the surface uneven, all the better to trip you, my dear. Her heart slammed painfully and she swallowed around a lump in her throat. He was right, she'd done this a million times before, a billion; walking down a runway was for her what breathing was for other people. Even so, her muscles were locked and she was certain that the moment she went to take a step, she would fall.

Lincoln watched for a long moment. When she made no sign that she was going to continue, he went over and put his hand on her shoulder. Her body tensed and she turned her head up to him, her brown eyes pooled with anxiety and her bottom lip sucked into her mouth. "I-I just need a minute," she stammered.

"Take as much time as you need," Lincoln said, "don't push yourself."

She looked down the runway and drew a heavy breath. "What if I fall again?" she worried; her voice sounded small and afraid, and Lincoln's heart twinged. The urge to take her in his arms and pepper her face with soft kisses came upon him like a tidal wave, and his stomach clutched. It was wrong, it was disgusting, but he didn't care, and that scared him.

"You won't fall," he said, and took her hand, his fingers weaving through hers. Their gazes locked and a beautiful pink blush touched her cheeks. Lincoln's heartbeat sped up and he started to tremble with the effort it took to keep from kissing her lips. "I-I'll walk with you."

"Please?" she asked needily.

He nodded, and she took a deep breath. She put one foot in front of the other, and they began to walk.

 _They sat together on the top step, purple dusk pooling around them as the last light of day filtered from the sky. Lincoln's forearms rested on his knees and his eyes studied his shoes; Lola's hands were folded in her lap and she stared straight ahead at the stockade fence separating their yard from the next one over._

 _She and Lincoln had been practicing for the upcoming Little Miss Cute and Mean Pageant all week, and she was having trouble with the talent portion - she wanted to do a magic act (thanks for the suggestion, Luan), but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get the hang of it; she flubbed every trick until she was shaking with frustration. Lincoln suggested trying something else, but she was set on seeing it through. Ten minutes ago, she tried a card trick for the umpteenth time, and wound up spraying them across the stage. For a moment she stood among them like a woman in the ruins of her tornado-devastated home...then she broke down crying, much to Lincoln's surprise._

 _Now, she sat stock still, tears drying on her cheeks and shimmering in her eyes; her breaths were short, watery, and hands quivered lightly._

" _It'll help if you talk about it," Lincoln said._

 _Lola sighed but didn't speak for a long time. "Everyone has their thing, and I have nothing." Her voice was heavy and dull._

" _What are you talking about?" Lincoln asked, confused. "You're Lola Loud, the pageant queen."_

 _She bowed her head. "I know - my thing is to look pretty. That's not a talent, Lincoln. Luna has music, Luan has comedy, Lynn has sports, Lucy has poetry, Lisa has science...those are all things they did on their own." She lifted her hands and gestured at her face. "I didn't do this. Mom and Dad did. Everything I try to do for myself I mess up." Her voice broke on the last word and she started to cry again. "I'm a failure."_

" _No you're not," he said instantly. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and drew her close. She resisted at first, but gave in and allowed it. "You're_ not _a failure. You just have to work hard. Luna didn't get good at playing over night, and Lynn didn't become the sports star she is in a single day - they both had to practice."_

" _They both have natural talent, though," she said, "I don't."_

" _Yes you do," he said and held her tight - she felt small in his arms, in need of love and protection, and he was ready to give it wholeheartedly and without question. "You have to work at it, that's all, and don't give up. If you want to get better, you have to go out and do it. Sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself won't get you anywhere."_

 _They lapsed into silence, neither speaking, both enjoying the closeness of the other. Lola rolled Lincoln's words over and over in her mind, examining them from every angle and finding them true left, right, front, and back. She looked up at him, and in the final light of day, his face glowed. A slow, loving smile spread across his lips, and for the very first time, Lola felt the strange, sickly butterfly wings flutter in her stomach._

 _She practiced her magic act again and again, and as Lincoln watched her slowly getting better, and her overjoyed delight at improving, her smile, the light in her eyes, her gleeful laughs...he started to feel it too._

Hand-in-hand, they reached the end of the runway and turned, then started back toward the stage. Lincoln watched her face as they went; at first her eyes were shut tightly as if in expectation of a blow, but now they were open and her breathing was regular. She was calming down, he thought with a smile. At the stage, he let go and turned to her. "Do you think you can do it alone now?"

Anxiety rippled across her face, but she nodded in determination. He took a step back, and, with a sigh, she went down the runway, her steps slow and unsure. Lincoln's heart pounded in anticipation - could she make it or did she need him? - but she reached the end without disaster, and paused for a moment. When she turned, she was smiling weakly….which was better than nothing.

She came back, then turned and went down the runway again, her steps becoming more certain and her confidence rising with every pass. On the fourth, she started to wave, and by the sixth she was positively radiant, and Lincoln's heart swelled with love. Lynn and Lana drifted by and stopped to watch, Lynn with a bat resting in the crook of her neck and Lana holding a baseball in a mit. "Yes, yes, I _am_ the Lola Loud," Lola said playfully as she passed them, "take a picture, it lasts longer...but is nowhere _near_ as beautiful as the real thing."

No, it's not, Lincoln thought.

No it's not.

"How's _this_ , Lincy?" she asked over her shoulder, her eyes half-lidding in a way that made his heartbeat speed up.

"Good," he said, "you're doing great."

"Thank you, Lincy,"

Lynn and Lana got bored after a while and went across the yard to play; Lincoln crossed his arms and watched Lola make the trip from the stage to the end of the catwalk again and again. _I could do this all day,_ he thought with a dreamy sigh. Shame began to creep in and he did his best to push it away. _I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. I-I'm…_

He shut that thought off before it could form. No, he couldn't think those four words...that would be going too far.

She was his little sister, he had to remember that. What he felt was _obviously_ misplaced, transferred from Ronnie Anne onto Lola - he decided to put his energy into coaching Lola the very same day Ronnie Anne left, and somewhere along the way, he put something _else_ into her, something that he' known about for a long time but never before admitted to himself. He wasn't an expert on love or women, but he knew enough to recognize what he was feeling, and that it wasn't right. He tried to ignore it, but that wouldn't work, it never does. The only option, as he saw it, was to let it run its course. The thing was: He couldn't act on it...wouldn't dare...and _not_ acting on it was getting harder all the time.

Time apart...that's what they needed…

But…

He was weak, and he couldn't be away from her - from her voice, her eyes, her lips, her warm, fragrant smell.

Plus, she needed him...needed him to be a good coach and big brother.

"I think that's enough of _that_ ," Lola said, bringing him out of his thoughts. She stood before him with her hands on her hips and a sly smile on her face. "Now I need to work on a talent. I was thinking gymnastics."

She took a gymnastics class last year to help with poise and flexibility; three nights a week, she and Lincoln walked to The Studio on Main Street, where she quickly became proficient in everything from balancing to hand springs. "That's a great idea," he said.

"Lindsey Sweetwater won't know what hit her," Lola grinned.

* * *

 _Autumn and cashmere all orange and green_

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

 _Creme' de gardenia and black Vaseline_

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

Lola gripped the rings dangling from the platform and pulled herself up, her legs jutting straight out in front of her; her arms quivered and she gritted her teeth against the pain. Lincoln stood between Lynn and Lucy, his arms crossed and his face a mask of worry. She flipped back, heels over head, and almost lost her grasp but saved herself. "Alright," Lynn said appreciatively. "I still say you should do a football routine." She lifted her hand and threw an imaginary ball down the field.

"I think she should read poetry," Lucy said in a flat monotone. "The dark kind."

Lola sighed. "Can you be _quiet,_ please? This requires concentration." She tucked her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth, then, with a gasp, she started to fall. Heart in throat, Lincoln sprang forward and caught her in his arms. Her eyes, squeezed closed, slowly opened, and lit up when she saw his face.

She was beautiful, and Lincoln turned away with a blush; he did not see her do the same. "T-Thank you, Lincy," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied and swallowed thickly. She was warm and soft in his arms and he could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. Lavender. "You're doing good," he added reassuringly.

Neither spoke for a moment.

"Lincy?"

"Yes?"

"You can put me down now."

Oh. Right. With a nervous laugh, he sat her down, and both glanced away from the other. Lucy and Lynn exchanged a quizzical look, then shrugged.

 _It's so not fair...completely inside my head_

 _Imagine pretending she's the book that I've read_

 _With a beautiful ending_

 _It really drives me mad I can't leave her alone_

 _'Cuz I won't let me forget her_

Lola stuck a backflip, wobbled, her eyes going wide, then fell hard on her butt, a puff of dust rising into the stagnant air. Leni, sitting on the back step with her knees pressed together, clapped wildly; next to her, Lori rolled her eyes. "That wasn't _supposed_ to happen."

They'd been out here for three hours, and in that time Lola had landed on her rear more times than her feet, and you could see the frustration beginning to gather in her eyes like dark storm clouds. Lincoln went over, knelt down, and put his hand on her shoulder. She jerked her head around and pressed her lips tightly together as if to keep from crying. "You're doing great," Lincoln said. It wasn't much, but encouragement was all he had, and he would give it if it meant he didn't have to see her cry. "Just keep at it. I believe in you."

She gazed into his eyes for a moment, then broke out in a sunny grin that he couldn't help but return. His fingers brushed the side of her face and she leaned into his touch like an affectionate cat. His heart sputtered, and when her eyes met his, something passed between them, and in that moment, Lincoln was powerless to stop those four words from blaring across his mind in bold type like a screaming headline.

 _...in love with her._

And controlling himself was becoming not hard, but impossible.

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

 _Her sweet molass' is all mine pasque frez_

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

Lola balanced on the beam with her arms out at her sides like wings, put one bare foot in front of the other, then took a trembling step forward. Lincoln followed worriedly beside, ready to catch her if she fell; Lynn and Luan followed on the other side for the same reason, but Lincoln didn't trust them. If she had to fall, he hoped to God she fell in his direction. Hey, you can't blame a guy for being protective over something that's precious to him, can you?

His fear was for naught, though; she wobbled here and there, but made it to the end, turned, and went back the way she came, swaying sloppily from side to side but keeping her feet under her. At one point, she looked down on him like a queen from a carriage, and her lips turned up in a sly smile. Lincoln's heart skipped a beat and his stomach tightened.

When on a balancing beam, the golden rule is to never lose your focus and to never, ever look anywhere but right in front of you. Lola broke that rule and she paid the price by falling. But it was okay, because Lincoln caught her.

And this time, instead of asking him to put her down, she gazed into his eyes.

 _Totally out of control she owns me_

 _Sweet almond eyes just to see and be seen_

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

 _She's tasting like cherries sweet love's grenadine_

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

Lola stuck another perfect backflip, and all of her siblings, gathered on the back steps, clapped, Lincoln loudest of all. As far as she was concerned, the others might as well have not been there at all; she had eyes only for him, and over the past three weeks of training for the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant, she'd come to realize that she was doing this not to beat Lindsey Sweetwater, or to prove to herself that she was talented like her sisters, she was doing it for Lincoln. The pride she saw on his face and the soft words of motivation he spoke as he stared into her eyes were addictive, the sweetest drug and the most beautiful feeling she had ever known.

Being pretty, pink, and girly doesn't necessarily make one stupid...she knew her emotions now, knew them completely and intimately...she was hopelessly head-over-heels in love with him, brother or not.

They say you can't choose who you fall in love with, and they're right. Cupid's arrow is just that, an arrow of wood and flint flying blindly through the air, not a laser guided missile you can aim and adjust at will. It hits where it hits, and sometimes the wind shifts and it hits where it's not supposed to.

That didn't change anything.

She loved Lincoln, and as the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant drew inexorably closer, he became the only thing that mattered.

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

 _A ten with a smile like a young Norma Jean_

 _She's naturally drop dead gorgeous_

Lola reached the end of the beam, spun, and went easily back the way she came, her feet quick and steady, her shoulders thrown back, and her arms out. She did not shake, did not wobble; her back was ramrod straight and she walked, foot in front of foot, with a hard won grace. Lincoln watched with a proud smile as she about-faced and started toward the other end. In the middle, she did a backflip and landed on her hands, then cartwheeled onto one foot, her body leaning forward and her arms out, reminding Lincoln of a crane. She turned, then, with a deep, fortifying breath, she did a backflip, and twirled in midair, landing on the ground and throwing out her arms with nary a misstep. On the back porch, everyone clapped and cheered.

Lincoln went over and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, red faced and winded, and her eyes sparkled. "I think I'm ready," she said.

"I think you are too," Lincoln said.

She threw her arms around his waist and hugged; he stiffened - _don't, I have strange feelings for you -_ then he relaxed and hugged her back, his fingers running through her silky hair. Maybe it was wrong, but he couldn't help himself, he loved her.

Pulling back, she looked up at him. "Thank you for helping me," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Lincoln smiled. "Yes you could have." He caressed her cheek, and they gazed deeply into each other's eyes.

It might be wrong...but unless he was sorely mistaken, she felt it too. And being wrong isn't so bad when you have someone to be wrong _with._


	5. The Pageant of Hearts

_Blinding white light filled the world, stinging her eyes and burning her face; she held her hands up to block it out and took a tentative step, her feet shuffling against splintery wood. She couldn't see, but she knew that beyond that light, the world watched with bated breath. Everyone. Every single person alive, and probably some who weren't, if Lucy's talk about spirits was to be taken seriously. Her tiny heart pounded in fright and her stomach twisted like a limp dishrag. She swallowed hard and forced her hands to lower; she put on her biggest, prettiest smile and narrowed her eyes against the blinding illumination. She could hear the rustle of fabric as people shifted in their seats, a muffled cough, the annoying ring of someone's cell phone. Closer, someone sighed, and her heart skipped a beat when she recognized it: Lindsey Sweetwater._

 _Suddenly her throat was dry and the base of her neck tingled. Her feet came to a shuffling halt, and she nearly fell forward, but invisible hands kept her up, their touch soft, warm, rising the hair on her arms. The light was roasting - her face stung as if with sunburn, and sweat beads formed on the crown of her forehead. She winced as she felt them slide down her face, dreadfully certain that everyone else could see too._ What a pig! Ew, gross! Look at her sweating, she _knows_ she's going to lose to Lindsey!

 _No I'm not! I'm not going to lose. I believe in me. L-Lincoln believes in me._

 _A man in a suit and glasses materialized next to her and spoke into a microphone. "Our next contestant, coming off the most embarrassing pratfall of the season, is Lola Loud. As you can see, her nose is still not fully healed. What a trooper!"_

 _Not healed? Yes it was._

 _She touched it with her fingers, and gasped: It was big, numb, and puffy, and_ everyone could see it. _She tried to cover it with her hands, but they were suddenly heavy, and twitched uselessly at her side. "Let's all give Lola a round of pity applause!"_

 _The audience clapped subduedly, a few_ awwwww _s rising here and there like acrid smoke. Lola's cheeks burned and she tried to bow her head, but her neck was frozen: All she could do was stand there and take it. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Lincoln put so much time and effort into training her, she couldn't let him down. She had to win...for him._

" _Alright, ladies and gentlemen, here comes the talent portion of the competition.. Lindsey will be doing her world famous ribbon dance."_

 _The crowd went berserk, clapping, cheering, whistling, and stomping their feet. Lola couldn't see her rival, but she could sense the smug smile on her lips, and she wanted to wipe it off so badly she trembled._

" _Mina Harker will be performing spoken word poetry, and Susie Carmichael will be baking cookies for everyone."_

 _More clapping, not as strong as it was for Lindsey, but still deafening, pounding against Lola's skull like drumbeats of doom. When the man put his hand on her shoulder, she jumped: His grip was cold, steely, and his tallon like fingers dug into her flesh. "Lola Loud will be…" he looked at her, and she forced a wan smile. "Sitting this one out."_

 _Her face fell. "No!" she cried, a keening edge in her voice. "I-I'm doing gymnastics." The man stared down at her as though she were a bug, his face pale and hard, his eyes dark pits of disgust. "I-I practiced_ really _hard," she said and balled her hands like a woman praying. "I can do it, I swear."_

 _The man drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Ms., but you just don't have any talent whatsoever. You'll have to wait until the beauty competition - you actually have a fighting chance at winning that."_

" _No! I_ am _talented! I-I'll prove it!" Panic clutched her chest and the walls were starting to close in on her. She cast a long look at the gallery of faces, all vague, shadowy outlines, their features blurred and threatening. She opened her mouth to speak, but they start to laugh at her, a low titer beginning in the rear and rushing through the crowd like a tidal wave until the sound was so loud Lola could hear nothing over it, not the ragged pounding of her own heart, not her heavy breathing, not even the throb of blood against her temples. She jerked her head from side to side._ Lincoln I need you _but he was nowhere - only those hateful, black, monstrous faces, demons gathered to bear witness to her ultimate failure. "Please," she said, her voice a broken whisper and tears beginning to stream down her face. "Please, let me show you."_

 _The world shook with mocking laughter, the cosmos echoed with it, every ear heard and every mouth joined in - even God Himself laughed down at her from His perch in Heaven, pointing and jumping from foot to foot like a madman. Something inside of Lola snapped, and she started to sob, her tiny frame shaking and her hands whipping to her face. She turned to stumble away, but someone shoved her back and she went down hard on her butt; the air left her lungs in a rush and her hands fel away from her eyes. Lindsey Sweetwater, much taller than she should have been, her face half hidden by shadows, loomed over her, hands on her hips and a wide cannibal smile on her face. Lola's heart stopped in her chest and cold fear settled over her like a funeral shroud._

" _You're not good enough," Lindsey said, her tone dark, evil. "You have no talent...just looks."_

 _Lola tearfully shook her head. "I-I am good enough." There was no conviction in her voice._

" _Oh?" Lindsey asked. "Because your brother told you?"_

 _She started to shake her head, but her voice issued past her lips without her meaning it to. "Yes," she said. "I love him and he wouldn't lie to me."_

 _Lindsey's laughter was like a hellish cannonade. "He doesn't love you. No one does. All you have are your looks."_

 _Suddenly, Lindsey was fifty feet tall, a hundred, her foot lifting and the sole of her shoe falling over Lola like the shadow of death. "And, honey, looks fade."_

 _The shoe came down…_

And Lola sat bolt upright in bed, a scream locked in her throat; the world was completely black, and for a horrible moment Lindsey Sweetwater's shoe was falling, falling, then she gripped her sleep mask with trembling fingers and yanked it off, snapping the band but not caring. Panting, she threw a terrified glance around the room; soft purple gloom painted the walls a cold hue, and in the spill of a streetlamp, Lana was revealed, humped under the covers and gently snoring, her breathing steady, rhythmic..safe.

Lola swallowed thickly and fought to catch her breath. A dream...just a dream. Still, her heart slammed a frenetic tempo and the back of her neck prickled; she looked over her shoulder, but saw only the headboard, and above it a giant poster of herself, hands balled in front of her and head tilted cutely, her gap-tooth smile a frozen grimace of pain cast in shadows. She shuddered and whipped away from it, goosebumps racing up and down her arms.

Get a hold of yourself. It was just a dream and that's all; you've had nightmares before...some even worse.

True, the one where she was completely alone in the house and couldn't find her family anywhere, then something started coming up the stairs, was scarier, but that didn't still the shakes, or her hammering heart. Cold, like the chill of the grave, radiated from her bones, and tears threatened to well in her eyes. In that moment, she felt so small, so lost, and so alone, a girl with nothing but her looks, and, honey, looks fade. The tears came then, and she was powerless to hold them back; they sprang hot and stinging, sliding down her cheeks in quick, silent beads.

She needed Lincoln.

Slipping out of bed, she ignored her slippers and went to the door on bare feet, her knees shaking and the tears coming faster; she paused at the door, her hand on the knob, and bowed her head in an attempt to get a handle on her emotions, but couldn't - tonight, in twelve short hours, she was going to go out on stage and lose the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant to Lindsey Sweetwater, she just knew it - part of her didn't care, but another part, the insecure part, the part that wanted desperately to be talented and not die out with her appearance, did; it cared so much that the thought of losing, of having the final nail driven into the coffin, made it wilt like a water starved flower. If she lost tonight, there would be no coming back - she would be forever without a talent, and she would fail at everything she tried, just like she failed at this.

She turned the handle and went out into the hall, which stood dark and empty at this hour, the only illumination coming from a night light plugged into the wall. For a moment she hesitated, irrationally certain that the moment she stepped away from the threshold, something -

 _Giant cannibal Lindsey Sweetwater_

\- would rush out of the darkness and grab her in cold, hooked fingers. Her heartbeat quickened and she looked fearfully toward Lincoln's door, then over her shoulder to the relative safety of her bed...her cold, empty bed.

Decided, she took a deep breath and darted into the hall, her heart blasting and her entire body tingling. She squeezed her eyes shut as she passed the head of the stairs - so open, so dangerous - and when she reached Lincoln's door, she threw it open and slammed it shut behind her; she jumped at the sound and threw herself at the bed, clambering on as Lincoln stirred. She hurriedly crawled up until her face was level with his. Perhaps sensing her, his eyes fluttered open, and he started. "L-Lola?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but tears overwhelmed her, and she broke down instead. "Lola?" Lincoln asked worriedly. "What's wrong?" He pulled his arm out from under the cover and laid his hand on her shoulder; his touch was soft, warm, and comforting, and for some reason, it made her cry harder.

Unthinkingly, he took her in his arms and pulled her body against his, his blossoming feelings for her forgotten; something was wrong and finding out what it was, and making it better, was all that occurred to him. "What's the matter?" he asked and ran his fingers through her silky hair; her small frame trembled and the high, miserable sound of her sobs clawed at his heart. Hot tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt, and she clutched a handful as though she were drowning and he was her only salvation. "Lola? What is it?"

She sniffled and jerked her gaze up to him; water stood in her eyes and her face twisted in misery. "I-I had a nightmare," she said, her voice small and fragile. She flicked her eyes down as if in shame at having a bad dream and running to him for protection. His heart broke and he hugged her tight, his lips brushing her forehead; her clean scent filled his nose, and for the first time he realized that he was holding not only his sister, but the girl he loved.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked patiently. He grazed his fingers across the nape of her neck, and she leaned back into his touch, her eyes meeting his.

"No," she said, and her pupils dilated ever so slightly with abject pleading. "Just hold me, please."

Lincoln nodded and wrapped his arms protectively around her tiny body, his fingers threading in her hair. She snuggled close and buried her face in his chest as if to shut out the cold, hateful world, and Lincoln rubbed lazy circles in her scalp, his nails ghosting across her flesh and making her shiver pleasantly. She always did like having her head scratched; once upon a time, he thought it a chore; now it was a passion. He pressed his lips to her forehead and moved his fingers in a wide arc. She hummed her contentment and put her hand on his hip, her heat soaking through his shirt and warming his skin. His heart began to race and before he knew what he was doing, he was trailing delicate kisses over her brow, his hand caressing the side of her face. She rubbed her hand slowly up and down his flank, her fingers quivering.

He was in danger of losing himself to desire, and pulling his lips away from her was the single hardest thing he'd ever done. "You're going to do great tonight," he said and held her.

"No, I'm not," she said, her voice muffled.

"Yes, you are," Lincoln replied firmly.

Lola didn't say anything for a minute. "I'm gonna mess it up."

Tilting her head back, he stared into her eyes. "No you're not. You're Lola Loud, and whether you think so or not, you can do anything you set your mind to. Look how quickly you took to gymnastics. When we started training, you were rusty, now you're, like, an Olympic gold medalist. That takes talent, Lola. _I_ couldn't do that, _Luna_ couldn't do that, heck, I don't even think _Lynn_ could do that, and sports are her thing."

He was just trying to make her feel better, and while she wanted it to work, she was afraid of getting her hopes up only to have them dashed again. She nestled her face in Lincoln's chest and took a deep breath, his scent soothing her. "I guess," she allowed. Suddenly she felt drowsy, and her eyelids drooped. Being here, safe in the arms of the boy she loved, her fears and anxieties were melting away. "I don't want to let you down, Lincoln," she said and closed her eyes. "You did so much for me and I want to make you proud."

A sleepy smile spread across Lincoln's lips. "I _am_ proud of you," he said, "and nothing you could ever do would let me down. I love you." Those last three words came as a surprise; he didn't know he was going to say them until he was speaking, but they felt so right on his tongue, so natural as they passed his lips, that he didn't care.

"I love you too," she whispered.

He rested his forehead against hers; sharing the same air, her breathing out and he breathing in, they fell into the most peaceful sleep either had ever known.

* * *

They left the house at seven, as the fiery orange sky cooled to purple ash: Lola sat in the very back, her hands folded in her lap and her back ramrod straight. Lincoln sat on one side and Lana on the other, Lincoln brushing calming fingers across the nape of her neck and Lana prattling about how her sister was 'gonna kick names and take butts." Lola forced a smile and thanked her.

As they made their way through the dusky streets of town, the gaping chasm of nerves in the pit of Lola's stomach roiled like water on a stove, and at one point she realized she was drumming her fingers on her knee. She contrived to focus on Lincoln's soft touch, and to the sensations it sent through her body. She closed her eyes, but she saw the stage from her dream - a gallery of shadowy faces with evil, toothy smiles watching, waiting for her trip up, to laugh at her misfortune, to send her home in tears one final time.

"You're going to be fine," Lincoln whispered into her ear.

She nodded. "I know," she lied, and put her hand on his leg. He stiffened slightly, then took it in his own, twinning their fingers and squeezing. They looked into each other's eyes, and if they weren't surrounded by their family, Lola would have kissed him in a way a sister ought not kiss her brother, would have given him her heart totally and without condition. Instead, she squeezed back. He smiled at her, and she smiled at him, genuinely this time, her face glowing and her eyes lighting up like lamps in the dark.

Falling in love with your brother is not something you should do if you can help it, but Lola could not, and as they pulled into the crammed parking lot of the community center, she realized that while it may be wrong, she didn't care one bit, and the first chance she got, she was going to tell him how she felt. She just hoped he felt the same way.

"Alright, kids, here we are," Dad said into the rearview mirror.

Everyone piled out of the van, Lola and Lincoln last, their hands still clasped together. Outside, the evening was cool and fragrant. Massive search lights flanking the front door tracked beams across the darkening sky, and throngs of people poured inside, the way lined with a red carpet that once would have made Lola feel like a movie star, but now made her feel empty. Inside, the lobby was packed, the din of a thousand voices thick like smoke in the air. Lola looked around and something about the scene was so wrong, so grotesque that her step faltered.

"You okay?" Lincoln after softly.

She nodded. "I'm fine," she said, but that was a lie, she wasn't. She looked into his eyes once more, and the dark emotions gathering in her chest dispelled as if scattered by the sun. If she focused on him, she could get through this, she could get through _anything_.

A set of double doors lead into the main hall - corridors opened up on either side, a sign providing directions to the bathroom, the concession stand, and the backstage area. "Good luck, honey," her mother said, stooped down, and kissed her forehead.

"Knock 'em dead, sweetie," Dad said.

Each one of her sisters followed, hugging her and giving her words of encouragement, then they all filed through the doors. Lincoln squeezed her hand and led her down the hall toward the dressing rooms. Lola's anxiety rose, and she looked up at him to quell it. When they reached the backstage, Lola spotted Lindsey Sweetwater talking to a group of girls, and her heart clutched. Lindsey looked up, noticed her, and flashed an evil smile. Lola looked away and quickened her step.

A few minutes later, she and Lincoln were in her dressing room, Lola sitting before the vanity and Lincoln standing over her from behind, one hand on her shoulder and the other splayed on the counter. Lola studied herself in the mirror - her eyes were shadowed and her lips pink, her cheeks red with rouge and her tiara situated perfectly on the top of her blonde head. She looked like a clown. Long ago, she told Lincoln that she wasn't happy to parade herself around like a piece of meat, that she was more and she wanted people to see that, yet for the past two years she'd been doing just that, walking up and down a runway and striking cute poses like a fool who has nothing more to offer, nothing better.

She looked at Lincoln's reflection in the mirror, and he turned his head to her. "You're beautiful," he said.

Lola sighed. "I'm tired of being beautiful," she said. "I-I'm tired of pageants."

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

She thought long and hard before speaking again. "The whole point of these things is to showcase beauty. There are talent portions, but they' aren't called _talent pageants,_ they're called _beauty pageants._ If I want to be more, I need to _be_ more and not keep doing this." She drew a deep breath. "I don't want this anymore."

"What do you want?"

Lola turned to him, their faces so close that their breaths mingled. "You," she said.

Lincoln's eyes widened slightly, and for a moment she thought he was going to reject her, then he cupped her cheek in his hand and brushed his thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone. A shiver raced down her spine, and her heart slammed painfully against her breast. For a moment they gazed into each other's eyes, something heavy and profound passing between them, then they leaned into one another, their lips touching with an electric spark that both felt. Lincoln held her face in his hands and stared lovingly at her, and she pressed her palms flat against his chest, the crazy beat of his heart making hers increase too.

He flicked his tongue out and she grazed it with hers - their heads tilted and the kiss deepened; his fingers threaded through her hair and her arms circled around his neck, their tongues moving in sweet, slow unison.

When it broke, they pulled apart and smiled at each other, Lola sucking her bottom lip in to savor the taste of his mouth. He stroked her hair and kissed the tip of her nose. "If you don't want to do this anymore, don't. I want you to be happy and if this doesn't make you happy, you shouldn't do it."

Lola sighed. "I don't want to, but you put in -"

"Don't worry about that."

"I was thinking," she said, "of taking up gymnastics again. I-I think I'm pretty good."

Lincoln nodded. "You are. _Very_ good."

She looked at her lap. "I just don't want to let anyone down."

He tilted her face up to his. "As long as you're happy, you won't. We love and support you no matter what. _I_ love and support you no matter what." He squeezed her hand, and she smiled. In his eyes, she saw love, and knew in that moment that he was telling the truth - no matter what she chose to to, he would be by her side.

Getting to her feet, she said, "Let's go. I'm ready to start a new chapter."

Lincoln smiled proudly and kissed her forehead. "Me too."

Together, hand-in-hand, they went forth and did.

 **Kind of a short story, I know, but I wanted to harken by to my earlier stuff and write something light and fluffy. Next up is** _ **Nasty Girl,**_ **which will pair Lincoln and Lana...and Lana's so gross, lol. Not eve sexually, just in general. I hope you enjoyed this story and I hope to see you next time - Flagg.**


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